


The Waiting Is Killing Me (and So Is the Chance I Never Took)

by nickelsandcoats



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-20
Updated: 2011-07-20
Packaged: 2017-10-21 15:36:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickelsandcoats/pseuds/nickelsandcoats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wishes he had taken his one last chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Waiting Is Killing Me (and So Is the Chance I Never Took)

**Author's Note:**

> For an anonymous prompt [here](http://nickelsandcoats.livejournal.com/122267.html) at my shuffle meme post. Feel free to prompt me something there!
> 
> Anon's choice was #900, which ended up being “Chances” by Athlete, from their album _Tourist_.  
>  Do listen to “Chances” [ while you read ](%E2%80%9Chttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EmDZI_IgRtE%E2%80%9D).
> 
> And to further set the mood, the [spoilerly photos](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-2016767/Sherlock-Benedict-Cumberbatch-rushed-hospital-scenes-new-series.html) from today will do nicely.

All his life, John had taken chances.

He took a chance when he signed up for the army, he took a chance when he got shipped to Afghanistan, he took a chance every day when he ran out after his section to patch them up.

He took a chance when he ran out one last time across the sand, feeling the searing pain of a bullet entering his shoulder, spinning him around before dropping him to the sand to bleed crimson on the pure beige granules.

He took a chance when he agreed to meet Mike’s friend, this potential flatmate.

He took a chance when he said yes to moving in with Sherlock Holmes.

He took a chance when he told Sherlock to run, to save himself from the bomb and the madman John had strapped to his chest.

But he never took one chance, and it was this one that he regretted the most.

He never took a chance with Sherlock. And now he was standing in front of his friend’s tombstone, and it was too late.

“I wish we could start over,” John said as he crouched down to place a small bouquet on Sherlock’s grave. He let the cane drop to the grass (the explosion in the pool which had killed Sherlock had also shattered John’s tibia and fibia and so he needed the damned cane until he healed completely) as he arranged himself as comfortably as he could.

“I never told you how I felt. What I wanted from you. What I wanted to give you. And now it’s too late⎯I was too afraid to tell you and I will regret that until the last breath leaves my body. Dammit, Sherlock, why didn’t you run when I told you to?”

He angrily swiped the tears from his face with his jacket cuff.

“Fuck. I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you’re not here. I keep talking to the skull. Your violin’s still out of its case, just waiting for you to come back and start scratching at it again. I haven’t even cleaned out the fridge, even though the head is starting to go off. I even check your website and my blog, just to see if you’ve posted some smartarse comment. But you don’t and you haven’t and you never will again and and _fuck_.”

He ground his palms into his eyes, hoping to stem the tears he couldn’t hold back. It didn’t work.

“Damn you, Sherlock Holmes. How am I supposed to start all over again? I had just found my life with you. I had a purpose again. I knew where I belonged, and that was keeping you safe, running next to you, chasing after murderers and thieves, and at the end of the day, I wanted to take you to our home and hold you while you dreamed.

“But you had to go and leave me here and now I don’t know what to do.”

He let himself slump until his forehead was pressed against the cold stone.

“I don’t know what to do without you,” he whispered, breath curling into the nooks and crannies of Sherlock’s engraved name.

When he finally returned home, John’s heart was bitter and cold with anger at himself for not taking his chance when Sherlock was alive, and was overwhelmed with a profound sadness that took root deep in his heart and would not let go for three long, lonely years.

*

When Sherlock Holmes walked through the door of 221B three years after he had supposedly died, a small part of John Watson’s heart, which had held out hope for so long that Sherlock might just have been alive, cracked open and wormed its way through his body, suffusing him with the first hint of happiness he had felt in years.

“Hello, John,” Sherlock said softly, pulling John in close until there was barely an atom of space between their bodies.

“I love you,” John blurted. “I never got the chance to say it before, so I’m saying it now before you disappear on me again and I don’t care if it’s not what you wanted to hear but it’s the truth, dammit, and it’s one I’ve been holding on to for far too long and I had to say it. I love you, Sherlock Holmes, I have loved you for so long it hurts me to think about it.”

Sherlock pulled back, stunned. “Still? You still love me?”

“You knew?”

“I suspected, but I never said anything. I’m still not an expert in human emotions, and I was afraid of running you off if I was wrong. But I regretted that decision every day, and I won’t make either of us wait any longer⎯I love you, John Watson. And I am so sorry for everything that’s happened.”

“Say it again,” John whispered as he kissed Sherlock’s cheek, “Say it again, please.”

And they said it over and over, until it was the only words they knew how to say, pressing them into each other’s skin as the world spun into darkness outside their windows.


End file.
